SOMETHING more than a year ago, as the writer was seated in the cars going west, a pleasant voice sang out, "Papers, sir? Morning papers, lady?"

There was nothing new in the words; nothing new to see a small boy with a package of papers under his arm; but the voice so low and musical, its clear, pure tones, mellow as a flute, and tender as only love and sorrow could make it, called up hallowed memories. One look at the large, brown eyes, the broad forehead, the mass of tangled nut-brown curls, the pinched and hollow cheeks, and his history was known.

"What is your name, my boy?" as, half blind with tears, I reached out my hand for a paper.

"Johnny;" the last name I did not hear.

"You can read?"

"Oh, yes! I have been to school some," glancing out of the window to see if there was necessity for haste. I had a darling boy once, whose name was Johnny. He had the same brown hair, and large, tender, loving, brown eyes; and perhaps it was on this account I felt like throwing my arms around his neck, and kissing his thin cheek.

There was something pure in the child standing modestly there in his patched clothes and half-worn shoes; his collar coarse, but spotlessly white; his hands clean, and well molded.

A long, shrill whistle, and a short, peremptory call, and Johnny must be off. 

There was nothing to choose. My little Testament, with its neat binding and its bright steel clasps, was in Johnny's hand. 

"Will you read it, Johnny?" 

"I will, lady; I will." 

There was a movement: we were off. I strained my eyes out of the window; but I could not see him; and shutting them, I asked His love for this destitute, tender-voiced boy.

A month since, I made the same journey, and passed over the same railroad; and what was my surprise to see the same boy, taller, healthier, with the same clear, calm eye, and pure, clear voice!

"I have thought of you, lady. I wanted to tell you it is all owing to the little book." 

"What's all owing to the; little book, Johnny?"

"The little book has done all. I carried it home, and father read it. He was out of work then; and mother cried over it so much that I thought it must be a wicked book to make them cry so. But it is different now; and it's all owing to the little book. We live in a better house now, and father don't drink; and mother says it will be all right again."

Dear little Johnny! His brown face was all aglow, his eyes bright and sparkling, and his face looking so happy!

Never did I crave so for a moment of time. But no; the cars moved, and Johnny was gone.

"It is all the little book," sounds in my ears the little book that told of Jesus, and of his love to poor sinners. What a change! A comfortable home, no more a slave to strong drink, hope was in the mother's heart; health mantled the cheeks of the children.  Would that all the Johnnies who sell papers, and have fathers who drink, and mothers who weep over the ruin of their once happy homes, would take to those homes the little book that tells of Jesus! 


THE love of knowledge heightens the enjoyments of life. It elevates the soul of man. It gives a charm to society, and renders solitude pleasurable. It is a shield against temptation, and a solace in trouble. 

If you love knowledge, you need never be lonely. It feeds the imagination, refines the taste, and ennobles the character.

BE not stingy of kind words and pleasing acts, for such are fragrant gifts, whose perfume will gladden the heart and sweeten the life of all who hear or receive them.